


will you (won't you) join the dance?

by The_Watchers_Crown



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Consensual Sex, Dream Sex, Established Relationship, I mean it's sort of a plot, I was a fool to think this would only be 4000 words long, Inspired by Alice in Wonderland, M/M, No chipmunks were harmed in the making of this fic, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Porn With Plot, The Magnus Institute is like 85 percent less evil than usual, Things have Spiraled out of control, Voyeurism, canon-typical weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-08 22:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Watchers_Crown/pseuds/The_Watchers_Crown
Summary: “I’m in a dress.” Martin sounds already resigned to the fact.or, The Queen of Hearts demands that Alice join the dance.





	will you (won't you) join the dance?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [julie4697](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie4697/gifts).



> I was asked for something Alice in Wonderland-y. I can only hope the end result is satisfactory.

Martin is up to his elbows in dust and something he very much hopes isn’t mold. Or dried blood.

It’s been an odd week at the Magnus Institute. Odder than usual, that is. If there’s such a thing as an ordinary week in this profession, Martin has yet to experience it. But it’s Friday, and it was Tuesday when one of the grad students stepped too hard on a weak bit of flooring in the broom closet and fell straight through into a dirt-lined tunnel, and the whole of the Institute rather literally unearthed a maze of long-forgotten storage. The week since has been spent scouring the tunnels in groups, drawing up maps and examining the contents of each room to determine what’s to be moved to Artefact Storage or cataloged into the library or added to the Archive mounds or disposed of. There’s also the occasional emergency fire pit.

Martin, despite some of the nastier surprises (a box full of dead centipedes), finds that he’s enjoying the process. It’s not often the entire Institute comes together for something productive, and that besides, the tunnels are interesting. They’ve found a room stuffed with old film reels (into Artefact Storage), and another full of sad-looking statuary (well-made and claimed by the Lukas family), and one that was all copies of the same Emily Dickinson collection (into the library, only after Martin found that each copy was lacking a different page). Half of the stuff is probably ridiculously dangerous, but that doesn’t stop it being fascinating to look at.

Just now he’s digging through a box that’s half his own height, wishing his plastic gloves were longer. He frees an armful of moth-eaten scarves, and coughs, and waves a hand in front of his face. The only thing he’s inhaled, as far as he can tell, is the taste of must. “I wonder who owned these.”

That’s definitely mold on one of them. Not blood. Definitely. (Probably.)

“Throw them into the burning pile.” Several feet away, nose wrinkled with distaste, Jon sifts through a collection of ancient newspapers that somehow haven’t fallen apart. He hasn’t been enjoying this experience nearly as much.

“Probably for the best,” Martin agrees, and drops the scarves back into the pile. They land with a soft _whoomph_. He carries the box into the tunnel and adds it to a growing waste pile before ducking back into the room to select his next excavation target. There’s a bookcase covered by a tarp nearer to Jon, and he chooses that, tugging the tarp aside and eyeballing the contents of the shelves: children’s books, mostly. “Anything interesting in those newspapers?”

“That depends,” Jon says, tone making it clear it doesn’t. “Are you interested in the personal ad of one Graham North, aged twenty-three, hobbies include…rock music, playing the guitar, and bird-watching. It’s only thirty years old.”

“Sounds like a nice bloke,” Martin says. “Twenty-three and he was placing a personal? Must be in his fifties now, bit of a silver fox. Maybe he’s still looking.”

Jon sets aside the newspaper. “I wasn’t aware you were looking to date a bird-watcher.”

“You know I’m not.” Martin laughs, and catches him for a kiss. It’s a quick one; they’re alone, but it would be just like Tim to choose _now_ to pop his head into the room, and they’re no secret, but there is the matter of professionalism. Not to mention, neither of them really want to spend another week listening to his lewd jokes at their expense. “Unless you’ve taken it up without telling me?”

Jon scowls, though he looks pleased, and says, “Bloody cheek.”

Martin gives him a smile before turning his attention back to the bookcase. There’s a full collection of _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , nothing noteworthy about them, and a copy of _The Hobbit_ that’s had its copyright page torn out and replaced with somebody’s lasagna recipe, an edition of _The Wind in the Willows_ that seems to have gone a bit more _Watership Down_ -esque than Martin recalls from childhood. He glances through copies of _The Velveteen Rabbit_ and _James and the Giant Peach_ and _Winnie the Pooh_ before he comes to a raggedy paperback _Alice_ _’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , which always was one of his favorites, so this, he stops to study more carefully.

“Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you join the dance?” he singsongs to himself under his breath, stopping on occasion at passages he likes. It comes on without warning and all at once: a heady, almost sickly-sweet wildflower smell, accompanied by a wave of dizziness. Martin catches himself on a shelf and gives the paperback a suspicious look. He turns to the cover page, which he probably should have done first. Sure enough, there’s a bookplate: From the Library of Jurgen Leitner.

He says, “It’s one of the weird ones.”

Jon’s next to him before the words are completely out, snatching the book away. “Be _careful_ with that,” he says, ruffled and snappish, and Martin knows it’s more worry than anger, because he knows Jon. He ought to, given they’ve been together two years.

“I’m always careful.” He feels strange. Tingly.

Jon takes hold of his chin and turns his head, and looks right into his eyes, which would ordinarily be quite romantic, but in this case feels a bit like a visit to the doctor. “You’re never careful.”

“Oh,” Martin says, his knees doing something awfully like gelatin, behaviorally speaking. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s the one.”

The wobbliness reaches toward his ankles, and the standing up situation is rapidly losing its appeal. He lowers himself, steadily at first, using bookshelves as support; but he sits down hard in the dirt. His eyes work their way back up, to focus on Jon. There’s that wildflower smell again. “Do you smell that?”

“I do.” Jon crouches beside him and touches his forehead. Martin has heard all manner of frightening things growl, and the sound Jon makes is impressively close. He shoves the paperback into a pocket. “I hate Jurgen Leitner.”

Martin peers at him. There’s a blue hummingbird hovering next to Jon’s face, and it looks like it might be origami, but when he blinks it’s gone again.

“Come on.” Jon pulls him onto his feet, which seem unreliable at the moment, and toward the doorway. “We’re going home.”

“I’m fine,” Martin insists, because he doesn’t want Jon to worry.

“Tim!” Jon barks, looking both ways down the tunnel. “Sasha! One of you help me get Martin upstairs.”

Sasha appears first, and then Tim, and together they all haul him up the shoddily built staircase they’ve been using while clearing the tunnels. It’s probably for the best. Martin’s legs haven’t yet returned to cooperating. He spots another paper hummingbird on the way out, this one apple green.

* * *

Martin is shepherded unceremoniously from a taxi to their flat to their bed. Jon sits beside him, still searching his face for an explanation. The wildflower scent has followed them here, though it’s gotten weaker, and Martin’s knees are steadier than they were before. At least, he thinks so. It’s difficult to say for sure when he’s on his back.

“I’ll fix you some tea,” Jon says, and doesn’t move.

“I’ve been a good influence on you.” Martin touches Jon’s hand. “Something with peach sounds nice. But you do know you can’t make tea while sitting right here, don’t you?”

“I know.” Jon still shows no sign of moving.

Martin smiles, his thoughts still the light, gauzy sort. “You don’t want to leave me unattended.”

“No, I don’t.” Jon presses Martin’s hair back, out of his eyes, and leans toward him, and Martin would expect a kiss if he didn’t know better.

“You’re cute when you’re worried,” Martin says.

Jon frowns, unamused. “We have no idea what that book may have done to you. There’s every possibility I’m going to watch you—” He catches himself before he finishes the thought, but Martin knows where the sentence was going, and thinks that’s probably a bit much. Still, he can’t fault Jon for being worked up over the Leitner, given past experience. _A Guest for Mr. Spider_ would leave anyone traumatized, not to mention the other nasties, _The Bone-Turner_ _’s Tale_ and _A Journal of the Plague Year_. “There’s every chance there’s something very wrong with you.”

“I know,” Martin says. But it was only _Alice_ _’s Adventures in Wonderland_. Surely it can’t have done anything _too_ awful to him. Hm. That’s not a very good thought. His lack of concern is almost more concerning to him than the campfire suddenly blazing in their bedroom corner, attended by a floating set of Cheshire teeth and a dour young woman with wet, straggly hair. They’re burning wildflowers that are marshmallow fluffy, and Martin can smell nothing else.

Jon follows his eyes to see what’s got him transfixed. His nose twitches, and he says, quietly, “Tell me, Martin.”

Martin describes what’s in their bedroom, and mumbles about the hummingbirds he saw at the Institute, and knows he should have done so earlier. It was stupid to keep it to himself.

“Are they looking at you?” Jon asks.

“No,” Martin says.

Jon’s sigh isn’t relieved. “We’ll get you through this,” he says, grim as he’s ever been. He kisses Martin’s forehead, and Martin drifts his way to sleep.

* * *

When Martin wakes, the bedroom is dark, his glasses have been removed, and Jon is asleep beside him, his breathing deep and even. The haziness is gone from his mind. He still smells flowers, less cloying now, but also nearer to hand. _Maybe it_ _’s wearing off,_ he thinks; the thought is pleasing right up until something rustles in the darkness at the foot of the bed. Something feels off as he reaches for his glasses, like his clothes are sitting strangely.

And then his glasses are handed to him.

Martin jolts backwards, glasses grasped tight in his hand, right into Jon, who wakes immediately and says, “What is it? What’s happened?” and swears at himself for falling asleep. Martin says something thoroughly unintelligible and fumbles his glasses onto his face, for all the good it does him in the black. He hears Jon moving behind him, and then there is light accompanied by additional cursing, and while his eyes are unhappy with the suddenness of that, the rest of him is preoccupied with his surroundings.

It’s their bedroom, but rather more overgrown than they left it. There’s a translucent vine peering at Martin; it hasn’t got eyes, but he can feel it staring anyway, as though it’s expecting some sort of reward, and he knows that’s what handed him his glasses. He laughs, a bit nervously, and continues to look around. In the corner, where there were teeth and a woman, a vibrant bluebell stands eight feet tall. Thick white branches wrap around the bedposts. A blanket of moss covers the headboard. Clusters of roses burst up through the lamps; their thorns look more dangerous than on any rosebush Martin has ever seen. On one wall, more roses, these in a garish shade of red, have been planted to spell out, ‘Welcome, Alice.’

They’re not the tidiest, but they’ve never let it reach this state.

There’s also the change in attire. The dress is a frilly sky blue number that buttons up to the collar and reaches his knees. He’s also got a white apron, a bow in his hair, and black and white stockings that go all the way up to his thighs. It all fits him better than he cares to admit.

Jon’s clothes have changed too, though his look much, much closer to something he would choose to wear. True, the trousers look to be an older cut, and so does the shirt, and Jon would never choose a mulberry waistcoat, and he doesn’t typically carry a pocket watch or wear a necktie looped and fastened in that fashion, but—well, it’s not a dress. He actually looks quite dashing.

Martin would tell him so, but just then he registers the blood on Jon’s hand, too much of it, and he yelps, and half-trips his way out of bed—without stopping to note that his legs are working again—and down the hall and into the bathroom. It’s dark even when he flicks the light switch; there are enormous leaves grown around the lights, and everything has an unsettling red-purple hue, and it’s more difficult to find bandages and peroxide than it ever has been before. Still, he does, at least things haven’t gone moving around, and when he gets back to their bedroom, Jon has wrapped his hand in a done-for pillowcase and is giving the room a hateful look.

Dodging through the undergrowth, Martin works his way to Jon’s side and takes his hand, murmuring a, “Sorry, sorry,” when Jon hisses in pain. “What happened?”

Jon jerks his chin toward the roses climbing up the lamp. There’s blood on their thorns, too. It’s not a surprise.

It’s not until his hand’s clean and freshly bandaged—Martin’s had an unfortunate amount of experience, working at the Magnus Institute—that Jon seems to really take in the sight of Martin. “Martin,” he says, nonplussed, “What are you wearing?”

“I’m in a dress,” Martin says, already resigned to the fact. This is his life. He leafed through a book and now there’s something gone wrong in their flat and Jon’s been cut thoroughly open by roses, and he’s in a dress. It’s only right. “I suppose we’re in Wonderland.”

Jon’s mouth thins at that. “Yes, I suppose we are. The question is whether there’s a way out or…”

The sentence is left incomplete and hanging. Martin suggests, “Or whether I’ve doomed us to a new home?”

Jon says nothing. It’s kinder than he’d be to anybody he’s not dating; truth be told, it’s kinder than Martin deserves at the moment. It _was_ stupid of him to go through the book like that. Eventually Jon seems to gather himself and takes another displeased look about the bedroom and says, “We’re not going to solve anything here,” and stands.

Their flat is similar to the bedroom throughout. Martin considers fetching their largest kitchen knives, but doubts they’d be useful in his and Jon’s inexpert, ineffectual hands. The rest of the building is no better; they knock at a few doors, and there are no answers, and neither of them particularly want to know what they’ll find if they force their way in.

“Shall we?” Jon says, his hand on the door to the street.

“We don’t have a better choice,” Martin says, which is close to a ‘yes’ as he wants to give.

The door swings open.

“That’s not London.” Jon sounds remarkably calm, given how significantly Not London it is outside the building. It might be what London looked like before London was there, all forested, except Martin’s never seen trees so tall or so thick or so strangely colored, or growing sapphires and rubies and amethysts instead of leaves. No, no, definitely not London. If Martin had any doubt they were in Wonderland, it’d evaporate about now.

Martin is the first to take a step outside, onto grass instead of the typical concrete step, though Jon warns him not to and probably he should be listening to Jon’s warnings given what’s already happened today. Assuming it’s still today. But he does take that first step, and another, and Jon follows him out.

It’s forest as far as the eye can see. Martin crouches to investigate a bed of flowers making an odd jingling sound. It’s almost like talking, in a language he’s never heard. Jon’s right beside him like a watchdog, and says, “I don’t remember Carroll writing this.”

“Neither do I.” Martin stands back up and scans the vicinity. He thinks, at first glance, that they’re completely alone.

Then Jon grabs his arm, near the wrist. “There. By those bushes.”

It takes Martin another moment to work out where Jon’s looking. Once he sees the figure, he’s not sure how he missed it; there’s a man—probably a man—clad all in white, leant up against a tree. “Do you think we should go talk to him?”

“No,” Jon says. “I think talking to anyone here is likely to be incredibly dangerous.” He deflates, a bit. “I also think we haven’t got much choice.”

They approach the stranger carefully, Martin making note of miniature apple trees and a deer with a spade-print pelt— _aha!_ —paper hummingbirds. The stranger doesn’t move. As they get nearer, Martin hears him whistling a tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘Pop! Goes the Weasel.’ He looks to be in his mid-forties, with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair with more salt than pepper; he’s wearing white shoes, white trousers, a white button-down, a white vest, and a short white hat with a brim that curves up. He’s also got a monocle.

They’re perhaps five feet away when he jumps fully upright—Jon stops, holding Martin in place beside him—and cries out, “Alice!” and waves enthusiastically. He bustles toward them, a near-manic grin splitting his face to reveal teeth as white as his clothes and gleaming. Before Martin can register his proximity, the man thrusts out a hand to take one of his and shake it vigorously. “There you are, the Queen will be so pleased to see you!”

“Pardon?” Martin says blankly, too taken aback to extract his hand from the stranger’s firm grip. Nobody’s ever called him Alice before. “My name’s not—”

The man waves him off. “Where have you been, little pet?”

Jon, less caught off-guard, takes a step, placing himself between Martin and the stranger. “If you don’t mind—”

“Don’t mind at all,” the man says, cheerful, and apropos of nothing. “Don’t mind if I do! I see you’ve got the time.” He snatches Jon’s pocket watch, which is quite attached to him, and leans in closer to scrutinize it. “Oh, this’ll never do, Alice, little pet, you’re awfully late, and so am I!” He clucks his tongue. “But you, you’re especially late. I’d best be on my way, and so have you, else we’ll never scrub the blood out of anything.”

“Sorry,” Martin says, his eyes going momentarily wide, “ _what_?”

“Go on, come on, go on,” the man says, bounding away at a speed Martin’s eyes only just agree to follow. “You know the path, Alice, you’ve traveled it so many times!”

And then he’s completely gone to the trees.

Martin says, not sure how it is his voice remains soft and even, “What the hell was that.”

Jon turns to face Martin. His frown lines have gotten deeper over the last minute of interaction. “Evidently,” he says, “you’re at the center of this business. I can’t say I’m surprised. You’re the one who fully handled the book; I suppose I was caught in its periphery.”

“Good thing, too.” Martin shivers and reaches for him, and Jon willingly takes him in his arms, and even here, they fit together. “I’d hate to be alone.”

“Not if I can help it,” Jon says; neither of them mention that nothing about this circumstance is up to them. He holds Martin tightly for a long while, until a low, melodic moan rises in the air around them, and a chill breeze bites through Martin’s dress, and they wordlessly agree to seek shelter in the trees.

The forest is easier to navigate than Martin expects. The branches, thick and weighted down with gems and glittering fruits, loom building-height overhead. The ground is a carpet of grass and flowers, which are centered around the tree trunks. There are strange animals here, foxes with antlers and feathered wolves and peacocks growing flowers, but they all keep their distance. Also, the moan stays behind them in the open space, and the walk could almost be considered pleasant if not for—well, it hardly bears saying.

There’s no way to know how long they walk, as the light is unchanging in the trees, always like the dawn is stretching and yawning its way into breaking. It could be minutes, or hours, or days, though Martin has an inkling it’s the second. The end of the trees is a sudden thing; one moment they are surrounded, the next moment they stand in open air, in front of a squat house painted an electric, painful shade of green. It’s brighter here, just as suddenly the middle of the afternoon. A fountain with a flamingo statue spewing water tempts Martin’s parched throat, but it’s unlikely to be trustworthy. Voices float from around the back of the house, one female and burning cruel, two—three?—difficult to distinguish from each other.

“This seems like a worse idea than the last,” Martin says. He doesn’t like any of those voices. Not a bit.

“Yes.” Jon squeezes his hand. They haven’t let go of each other since their run-in with the man in white. “Let’s go.”

Onward it is, into poor not-entirely-choices and a growing smell of scorched cakes.

The backyard is a riot of color, flowers and chairs and tables for two. There’s one long table in the middle of the yard, and five people seated around it. At one end, a woman of perhaps twenty-something with long auburn hair, idly swirling a spoon in a teacup, and a woman a bit older, with darker hair and a smile that makes Martin want to run back in the opposite direction, possibly to the moaning air. The others are along one side and Martin’s stomach clenches at the sight of their pallid skin; their eyes are open, staring at nothing, and they’re not holding themselves upright. He knows a corpse when he sees three of them. Small animals, mice and chipmunks and a guinea pig or two, skitter across the table.

“I would rather not,” Martin says so that only Jon can hear him.

The first woman looks up and spots them, and Martin feels locked where he is. “Alice,” she calls, unsmiling, “come and sit.”

Jon gives Martin a dubious look. “We have to.”

“I’m not Alice,” Martin says, fully aware of the dress he’s wearing. Of course he’s seen the film. But he’s Martin. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake, not a prepubescent girl!

“I know you’re not.” Jon pulls him forward.

The dark-haired woman cackles, fully _cackles_ with delight at their approach. “Ooh, Alice again, maybe this time the Queen will let me have some of my own fun.”

“Manners, Jude,” says the first, her voice quiet and lacking much inflection.

Jude, apparently, makes a bored, disdainful sound and says, “Would you like to join us for lunch?”

There’s a fire in her eyes and Martin decidedly does not want to join them. He gives the corpses a nervous look and all three raise their hands in a jittery way, like puppets, and their mouths do not move as three voices say, “Have some tea.”

Jude howls with laughter. The teapot in front of her steams and bubbles over. She snatches a chipmunk from the table, ignoring its squeaks of protests as she removes the lid and begins to lower it toward the teapot. She’s cooing, worse than the laughter.

“Jude.” There’s more sharpness to it this time.

“You never let me have any fun.” Jude drops the chipmunk. It darts away, its fur burned black. “Look, pretty Agnes, Alice is here, but the other one’s _not_ Alice, so I don’t think the Queen would mind if I melted it a bit.”

Martin blanches. He takes a step back, intending to take Jon with him, but Jon doesn’t move; he’s stubborn that way.

“No.” The first woman, Agnes, releases her spoon. “Alice, would you like something to drink?” Her mouth twitches into an expression Martin _thinks_ is intended as a smile. “There’s water or there’s tea or there’s coffee.”

“Or there’s blood, Alice,” the three corpses say. “Don’t you like blood?”

Agnes pays them no mind.

“Hmm.” Jude reaches for the nearest corpse and pushes her hand onto its grey face. _Into_ its face. _Through_ its face and out the other side. The flesh and bone melt around her fingers. Martin thinks he might vomit.

The other two corpses turn toward Jude, a pantomime of indignation. “What was that for?”

“I wanted to see what would happen.” Jude pulls her hand back with a squelch and examines her fingers, coated in blood and brain matter.

The ruined corpse remains upright…for a moment, until it falls forward onto the table. Agnes stands, chair pushing out behind her, and says, “Do we need to have another lesson in manners,” and the quiet flame licking into her voice is more frightening than Jude’s obvious inferno or the corpses.

Jude folds her hands in front of her. “No, pretty Agnes, no.”

Agnes gives her such a long look it seems she may have forgotten Martin and Jon are there, which Martin wouldn’t consider terrible, as far as things go. The only thing stopping him from running is that he doesn’t think Jon would come easily along. Eventually, she sits back down and swirls her tea, and Jon clears his throat. Agnes looks at them. “I’m sorry, Alice. Was there something you wanted to drink?”

Martin says, “My name’s not Alice.”

“Ah,” Agnes says. “That’s too bad. But you are Alice.” She shoos away a mouse that’s come to sniff at her. “We have water or tea or coffee.”

“Try the tea,” Jude says. “It’s the hottest.”

“Try the blood,” the remaining corpses say. There’s a third voice still there, more resentful now, and as their mouths weren’t moving to begin with, Martin supposes there’s no reason it can’t still be speaking. In a manner of speaking. “It’s highly recommended.”

Agnes indicates two glasses of water. “Go ahead,” she says, and Martin’s throat is so, so dry; it’s against his better judgment, but he downs a glass before better judgment’s joined them at the table. Jon drinks one as well, and Agnes appears pleased, and sounds genuinely concerned when she asks, “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” Martin says, surprised by the truth of it. The water was ice-cold (unexpected, given the women) and refreshing, and it didn’t _taste_ poisoned. He supposes Wonderland would be more creative than cyanide though. “Thank you.”

If he dies in the next hour, at least he’ll have been a polite murder victim.

“Thank you,” Jon says, too.

“Thank you,” the corpses parrot.

Jon ignores them. “Do you know where we should go?”

“The Queen will be expecting Alice.” Agnes’ tone gives away nothing of if this is good or bad. “You’ll have to go to the Queen.” She points to an arbor at the back of the yard, where there’s a cobblestone path running into shade. “Try that way.”

“Thank you,” Jon says again. They leave behind the sound of Jude laughing again.

The path Agnes has set them on is narrow, just enough for them to walk side by side. It is cool here, constantly shaded, a little too dark.

“Wonderland takes timezones to extremes,” Martin remarks. It’s not the easiest on his eyes, the constant readjusting. “I’ll need a new prescription by the time we get home.”

If they get home.

Jon stops, and just looks at him. It’s been a long time since Jon looking at Martin has made him self-conscious; it nearly does now, when Jon touches his face and his hip, where the dress sits just tight enough to be noticeably different from his own clothes. “We’re going to get home.” It’s the voice he uses for promises, though Martin’s never heard him say ‘I promise’; Jon’s never broken a promise to him yet.

“You’re so sure all of a sudden.” Martin’s the one who got them into this mess. Wonderland isn’t what he would call Wonder _ful_ , and he should be the one promising to get them out. “I thought we didn’t know if there was a way.”

“We’re in a story,” Jon says. “Stories have endings. We’ll just have to find the ending.”

The proper story ends with Alice waking up. But the proper story doesn’t include people like the man in white or Jude or corpses sat down to lunch. Martin keeps this thought to himself. “You’re right.”

Jon opens his mouth and is interrupted by a croaky, “Boring!” from somewhere behind him.

“Why are you talking about something so boring?” says a shriller voice, this one from behind Martin.

The only thing in sight, beyond the wooden trellis walls keeping them locked on their path, are roses, hundreds of them, a mixture of red and white. It can’t be the flowers talking. Except it can be, given where they are.

“Talk about feeding us,” says a third, nasal voice. “I’m starving.”

“What do talking flowers eat?” Martin says to Jon, not really wanting the answer.

“I wouldn’t talk about that if I were you, Alice,” a new voice says, this one harder to describe. It’s playful and amused, and quiet, sort of. A man melts into existence, blond and taller even than Martin, and he looks like a knife, if a knife were a person. His smile is wide and unsettling, like his face isn’t used to making the expression, or any expression, or being a face.

“Who are you?” Martin asks.

The man laughs. It makes Martin’s ears hurt, and there are too many teeth. The rest of him fades a bit around them. “Oh, Alice, Alice, sweet little Alice, I’m not.”

“You’re not…” Martin expects more sentence to follow.

“That’s right, I’m not,” the man says, evidently satisfied with his own answer. “Michael is a name and it’s not quite attached and I’m not, but you’ve always seemed happy when I let you call me Michael and the Queen likes it when you’re happy, and I—I’m not, sweet Alice, I’m not!—I like it when you’re just a little red.” The man, the thing, _whatever_ , Martin can’t follow, extends a hand that’s razor-sharp. “Do you want to dance with me this time, sweet Alice?”

“You want to dance?” This, of all things, throws him the most.

The face comes back into focus with the teeth; the man’s, the thing’s eyes are mesmerizing, fractal patterns, and it’s Jon’s hand that wrenches Martin out of them. The man, the thing, Michael looks disappointed, if it can. Then it laughs that painful laugh. “Oh, it’s too early for the dance, time is difficult, and self is difficult, and I am difficult, but I am not, I am not, I am not, I’m Michael and I’m not, and it’s too early, you have to speak to the Queen first!” The thing’s, Michael’s eyes land on Jon, and for a moment Martin fears that it will lunge for him, but it says, “Have you got the time, man with Alice? I don’t know you and I don’t want to—I’d like to dance with Alice, and I’d like to know the time, and you’re carrying the time, which _is_ impressive.” It pauses. “I like Alice.”

Jon’s brow is furrowed. Under ordinary circumstances, Martin would reach over and smooth a thumb over his face; he’s concerned about what Michael might do though, if he does. If it’s convinced he’s Alice, and it likes Alice, and maybe it’s got a jealous streak; he keeps his hands to himself. Jon opens the pocket watch for the first time, and says a mystified, “It’s…teatime?”

Martin blinks. He leans over to peer at the clock face. It makes very little sense: there are no numbers, only little pictures, such as a teacup and a three-eyed skull and an open, empty coffin and a ball gown.

“Teatime!” Michael reaches toward Martin and stops just shy of him, sharp fingers frightfully close to Martin’s skin. “Not yet,” it says to itself, and then to Martin, “We have to go, sweet Alice, you can’t miss teatime. The Queen would be unhappy and then she might not let me dance with you and I wouldn’t like that. Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Go where?” Jon asks.

Michael looks put-out. Martin repeats the question and it gives him that grin, probably a good sign, but not one he enjoys receiving. “To the Queen, my sweet,” it says happily, and then there is a door behind it, a yellow door that it pushes open and waves through. “You can come too, man with Alice, or you can stay and feed the flowers, let’s go.”

There’s no reason to assume the door is dangerous. More dangerous than anything else, that is. It’s almost certainly dangerous. Martin and Jon step through together, into a corridor, and Michael comes after. It disappears and reappears in front of them, and hurries them along, through a dozen identical hallways that turn and senselessly turn, and there are fractals behind Martin’s eyes, and the thing’s cooing voice, and Martin thinks, _Jon, Jon, Jon,_ and it is only this that keeps him present until Michael opens a new door and they step out onto a terrace that is bright without a sun.

There are more people here, a hundred or more standing about with drinks in their hands. They have color, most of them, more than could be said for the puppeted corpses, so Martin chooses to believe they’re alive. White roses dot the terrace, poking up through cracks in the marble floor. There’s music playing, cacophonous and horrid. Martin spots the band, helmed by a man, thin and short and wearing a brown suit five sizes too large. At least it smells nice, like salty sea air, and sure enough, there’s glittering blue water surrounding the terrace.

“Let’s go,” Michael says again, laughing its laugh and shoving its way through the people; they bleed when it touches them, and Martin feels badly for being relieved it’s not touching _him_. It leads them toward a glass throne, where a woman sits, twirling a scepter topped with a human head. It’s not decorative, crafted into the shape of a head from jewels, but an actual human head. “You have to see the Queen, Alice.”

The woman, the Queen, wears a surprisingly simple dress, with capped sleeves and a skirt more modern than anyone else is wearing; the top is black and the skirt is red, and heart shapes in both black and white are sewn onto the bottom. Her hair is brown and unkempt, and her skin looks…wrong. Like it doesn’t fit her right. Like it was stretched over her body after the fact.

She’s not alone. The man in white stands beside her, looking out toward the water; Agnes and Jude sit on the ground, and all three corpses hover nearby in a literal sense, their feet a few inches off the ground.

“Alice!” The Queen is out of her chair like a shot, dropping her scepter and clapping her hands together like a giddy little school girl. She hurtles toward them and throws her arms around Martin. He stiffens. Her skin is rubbery and she’s all angular and it feels like being hugged by a grotesque mannequin. “Alice, I’m so glad you’ve arrived, it’s terribly dull without you!” She drags him toward her throne, and announces, “Alice is here!”

The man in white gives Martin a sly grin. “You found your way, little pet.”

“Peter,” the Queen says, “you didn’t tell me you’d seen Alice! Did you know she was coming?”

Peter says, “I know how much you like surprises.”

So much for the Queen expecting them.

“I brought her to you,” Michael says, a bit sulky. “She might have taken ages to get here.”

“Yes, yes,” the Queen says.

“I think the monster has a crush,” Jude says with a nasty smile.

“You’ve decided to start calling yourself the monster? That is…much more accurate than Jude.” Michael laughs at its own joke.

Agnes’ lips twitch. Flames engulf the roses nearest Jude.

“Erm.” Martin’s not sure what he’s meant to be doing at this point in the situation. The story. He throws a helpless look at Jon.

It’s then that the Queen notices Jon. Her smile widens. “You brought your own dance partner this time! He looks like a…hm, what do you suppose he looks like? Is there something you call him?”

Martin has the sense that giving the Queen Jon’s actual name would be unwise. “This is the Archivist.”

“Archivist,” the Queen repeats. “I don’t believe you’ve danced with an Archivist in my court before, have you? Never mind, never mind, you must sit down. It’s been so long and I’ve missed you all the time. Nobody else knows how to have any fun.” She looks about. “We haven’t got a table.”

The three corpses rush to bring a table and chairs. Their movements are jerky, almost jaunty, like their puppeteer is having a jolly good time of it. Martin takes a deep breath to keep himself together. He takes a step nearer to Jon, who’s warm and his among all this insanity. It helps.

“Come and sit beside me,” the Queen instructs.

Martin pulls Jon with him, not that he needs to.

Peter sits opposite Martin, while Michael is on Jon’s other side and looks none-too-pleased about it. Agnes and Jude and the corpses share Peter’s side, the corpses at the end, which is good, as it means Martin isn’t forced to look at them.

“Something to eat?” the Queen asks, and before she’s called out for anything, there are servants bringing tea and platters of tiny cakes. They look as human as the Queen; at least they’re not corpses.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Martin says as tea and cake are served to him personally. “I, uh. Um.” 

“Call me Nikola!” The Queen leers at him. Probably she means it to be kinder than it looks. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Alice?”

Martin is more than out of his depth. He hazards, “Yes?”

“Yes! We’re friends, and all my friends call me Nikola!”

“Right…Nikola.” Martin glances at Jon, who gives him a rather more encouraging look. “Are you having a party today?”

“A garden party!” Nikola nods eagerly. Behind her, something surfaces in the water. Martin’s eyes refuse to make sense of the shape. It’s too large. It’s got too many limbs. It’s got shark teeth. Peter waves to it. “Yesterday we had a house party.” Nikola ticks this off on her fingers. “The day before that we had a corpse party, and it was a mess, you would have loved it, Alice! I think tomorrow we’ll have a pool party.”

Martin knows how to make polite conversation. He knows how to make polite conversation with _normal_ people, even the most irritating of them. This lot tests his limits.

“Archivist,” Nikola says, a bit later, “how is it you met my dear friend Alice?”

“Sweet Alice,” Michael says from its seat.

“Precious Alice.” Jude sneers.

Jon scowls right back at Jude. “I met Martin—”

“No, that won’t do,” Nikola says, and she still sounds genial, but there’s something beneath it. “Address Alice properly, Archivist.”

Martin and Jon exchange a look, Jon frowning and Martin wondering if melting into the ground could be an option. It’s Wonderland. Surely nothing is outside the realm of possibility. Still, Jon grits his teeth and says, “I met Alice when h—she was reading a story. We both like stories.”

“Everyone likes stories.” Nikola licks frosting from her fork.

It’s difficult as ever to tell how much time is passing. How long they’ve struggled through this party. Just like the other parts of Wonderland, this place’s light never changes. They are always in a bright afternoon, like dusk has been hogtied and gagged and locked in a closet somewhere so it cannot come out for its part of the day. Eventually Martin catches one of the corpses looking at him and cannot take a second more of this.

“Nikola,” he says, and she perks right up. “I appreciate your hospitality, of course I do.” It seems the sort of thing she’ll like to hear. “But they’re expecting me at home and I think I’ve got to be going soon, if you won’t be too hurt.”

“Why is it you never want to stay, darling?” Nikola pouts, folding her arms over her chest. The rest of the table seems to collectively hold its breath. Except for the corpses, which don’t have any breath to hold. “Oh, I _do_ wish you’d stay, but I can’t say no to you. Of course you can go! After you join the dance! You know the rules!”

There’s the dance again. Martin doesn’t understand the meaning any better now. “The…dance? What sort of dance?”

“Oh, Alice, you remember the dance! Of course you do, or why did you bring a partner with you?” Nikola laughs. Everyone laughs, including the corpses. Even Martin laughs, though his is nervous; Jon’s isn’t nervous, just a poor imitation of humor. “But you can choose a different partner if you like, darling, you can have any partner you want, you always can. Peter’s got such nice hands, and Michael pines when he hasn’t danced with you in a long time, and there’s Agnes, though she still runs a bit warm, you’ve that to consider—or do you _like_ your Archivist’s cock?”

The sudden vulgarity is jarring.

Jon chokes on his tea. His lips press together. “That is quite enough,” he says, his voice low and angry in a way Martin hasn’t heard since Elias locked Martin in Artefact Storage overnight as a cruel experiment. “You can’t just ask about things that are none of your damned business and you—”

“Don’t be so _rude_ , Archivist.” Nikola snaps her fingers and a tangle of rose vines explode from the floor to lash around Jon’s arms. Jon makes a strangled sound. Thorns dig into his clothes and into his skin. The roses are white, except they’re _not_ , they’re filling in with red and Jon looks paler. Martin’s got to stop this.

“You have decided to feed the flowers!” Michael sounds delighted.

Peter tsks.

A vine snakes around Jon’s throat. Martin yelps and turns to Nikola. “Please, Nikola, stop it, stop it, I’m sorry his manners aren’t very good, he didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, Alice, it’s just a bit of blood, don’t make such a fuss,” Nikola says. But the vines retract, leaving Jon silent and furious and bleeding and every fiber of Martin’s being wants to take care of him immediately.

“That’s too bad,” Jude says, disappointed. “I wonder if a dry old Archivist would go up as easily as dried out old paper.”

Agnes gives her a significant look.

“So!” Nikola’s already moved on, apparently. “The dance, Alice.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. “I’m a bit forgetful today. Could you remind me what sort of dance it is?”

He has an inkling that he hopes is wrong.

“Silly thing,” Nikola says. “You’ve got to perform for everyone—well, mostly me, obviously—a consummation dance.”

Right. That’s…more than enough clarification, aside from one bit. Martin allows himself a look at Jon, and can’t tell if he’s still bleeding through his outfit. “We have to dance in front of everyone?”

“Yes! The dance is for everybody!”

“And then we can go home?”

“If that’s what you want,” Nikola sighs. “I promise, Alice, I always do.”

Martin swallows. “Could the Archivist and I have a moment alone, to um, talk about this?”

“Of course you can!” Nikola smiles, this time at Peter.

Peter winks at Martin.

Then Jon and Martin are alone. Completely and utterly alone. They haven’t moved, are still sitting at the table, and the food is there, but Queen Nikola and her subjects have disappeared. Maybe it’s Martin and Jon who have disappeared. It’s difficult to be sure.

Martin knocks his chair over in his hurry to stand. “Jon,” he says, frantically rolling Jon’s sleeves up, “are you all right?”

Some of the color has returned to Jon’s face already. “I’m fine,” he says, but Martin’s found the punctures in his arms, deep red gouges. “I’m not bleeding. The flowers swallowed all of it. And it doesn’t hurt.”

“Oh,” Martin says faintly. “That’s…not _good_. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“There’s nothing for it,” Jon says. “What do you want to do? You’re her…Alice. Apparently.”

Martin shudders. “I don’t want to—dance, whatever, have sex in front of anybody. But I don’t think we have much choice if we want to go home. Are you…are you all right with it?”

“I told you,” Jon says, “we’re going to get home.”

“Then I guess we’re going to dance.” Martin looks about. He calls, “Um, hello? Nikola? Peter? Michael?”

There’s a moment of silence and then a rushing around Martin’s ears, and they are back in the royal company.

Nikola smiles at Martin. “Won’t you join the dance?”

“Yes,” Martin says, “we will.”

Michael makes a disappointed sound at his decisive use of ‘we’ and says, “Should I clear the table?”

“Do we have to—here?”

Nikola giggles. “Are you having a case of stage fright, darling Alice? Don’t you worry, you needn’t dance on the table—though you _can_ if you like. Michael, make them a door, please.”

“If that’s what Alice wants.” Michael waves one of its arms.

Another door appears beside Martin. This time the door is red. Unlike the last, it isn’t plain, but adorned with a shape that might be a Valentine’s-style heart or might be a rose or might be a human heart. It changes, warps as he looks at it, too distorted for him to ever be certain which it is.

“Don’t look so sad,” Jude says to Michael. “You’ll still get to watch your sweet Alice.”

“Don’t call her that, monster,” Michael says, and cuts her face down the middle. It reforms immediately into a malevolent smile.

“Go on!” Nikola chirps. “Have a lovely dance! I’m eager to see it!”

Martin doesn’t much care where the door leads, as long as it gets them away from these monsters for a short time. He wrenches the doorknob and steps through into—a bedroom. It’s actually rather ordinary. Er. More ordinary than the rest of Wonderland. It does look a bit like a sex shop got into a tussle with a princess-themed bedroom, gaudy and pink and with a display of different accessories they might choose to use, if they’re feeling adventurous. Martin doesn’t fancy being whipped in the privacy of his own home, and he doesn’t fancy it here, either. Jon’s shut the door behind them.

There’s a little table beside the door, with a plate of chocolates that ought to be melting, he thinks, given it’s far hotter in here than it was out on the terrace. A card stands beside them, block letters with the invitation or instruction: EAT ME.

“What do you suppose is the point of these?” Martin says, almost— _almost_ —smiling at the thought of Carroll’s text. “A change in size, maybe? You don’t think they would change…oh.” He’s opened the card now. The inside reads, in loopier, unpracticed letters: _Sweetness to help you enjoy your dance._

Jon peers over his shoulder and scoffs. “They’re an aphrodisiac.”

“Sounds that way.” Martin makes a face. “Do you think we should eat them? I don’t know if I can…I might need some help, given the situation.” It’s not that he needs help being attracted to Jon. It’s just that he’s not an exhibitionist. Particularly not this sort of exhibitionist.

Jon answers by popping a truffle into his mouth. “Raspberry,” he says. He picks up another, but lifts this one to Martin’s mouth, and Martin parts his lips to accept, and the chocolate is delicious and melts on his tongue, and Jon’s finger stays between his lips, and—the effect is immediate. It doesn’t change Martin’s awareness that they’re about to have sex for a monster’s pleasure, but…well, it does give him the idea that his cock might have some interest.

“Better?” Jon asks.

Martin nods, licking at the available fingertip. He does like the way it makes Jon shiver. Good. That’s good. He fists a bit of his skirt in both hands. “I’d rather keep this on,” he says; the chocolate hasn’t made him more keen on being nude for their audience. Their imaginations will just have to suffice. “How much d’you suppose Nikola wants?”

“I don’t care about her.” Jon gives the door a stormy look, and Martin likes that, too. There’s no denying they’ve had some _fantastic_ sex when Jon’s been frustrated after work; the memory serves him well right now. “I care about you. Keep the dress on.”

Martin manages a smile. “I love you,” he says, and pulls the stickpin free from Jon’s necktie. “Kiss me.”

Jon kisses him, and Martin drops the stickpin onto the table, and runs his hands into Jon’s hair. It’s a warm kiss, a familiar kiss, open-mouthed and exploratory, though it’s territory they both know thoroughly. Martin has always loved kissing Jon, from the very first time he was allowed, stood stupidly in the middle of the Archive where anyone might have walked in on them; he still loves it, Jon’s hands on his face and Jon making appreciative sounds when Martin crowds him toward the wall. The table falls onto its side and the chocolates scatter, and Martin’s far more interested in the way Jon’s tongue seeks out every available spot in his mouth. When they break, it’s only for air, and Martin’s lips are wet, and he could almost forget where they are.

Almost.

“I love you,” Martin says again.

“You’re my world,” Jon says easily, and Martin tugs him back, back, back, until his own knees are at the mattress and there’s no more back to go. Jon pushes him, and Martin falls gracelessly onto the rich red sheets.

Jon is on him again in a moment, his knees between Martin’s legs with the skirt bunched up a little around them. They’ve spent hours like this before, Jon ever-content to kiss Martin breathless, and _god_ , he does, is exceptional at it, his attention to detail just as marked in his personal life as the professional. One of Jon’s hands pins Martin’s wrist to the mattress. The other finds the buttons of Martin’s dress and undoes the first few. He pulls away, and Martin makes a sound of protest, but Jon’s lips glide across his jawline, down his neck—with a pause to lick at a spot that always makes Martin quiver—trace his collarbone, and then both of his hands are finding their way lower.

They start at Martin’s knees, near the edge of his stockings, and then they’re running up, up, up Martin’s thighs, up higher still, and, “ _Oh_ ,” Martin breathes. He’s not sure how he hadn’t fully registered until now that there’s nothing _beneath_ the skirt, supposes he’s had other concerns, but he’s noticing now that Jon’s got a hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him casually, unhurried. Martin whimpers into the air when Jon’s thumb stops to gather the precum beading at the head, uses it to smooth his way.

The place is _wrong_ and they’re being watched and that’s mortifying, but. Those are Jon’s lips that have left a wet trail starting from his mouth. That’s Jon’s tongue licking at his nipple through the dress. Those are Jon’s hands on his hip and his cock. It’s still Jon, and everything else might be wrong, but being with Jon is always right.

“Talk to me?” Martin says, not caring that it comes out like begging.

Jon looks up from lavishing attention on Martin’s chest, his hand still moving at a pace slow and torturous and wonderful, and there’s a wickedness in his face that Martin has seen a thousand times. Jon—Jon knows just what his voice does for Martin, what his voice has always done for Martin. He knows because Martin told him, six months into their relationship and tipsy from the Institute holiday party, that it was his voice that attracted Martin to begin with, that it started with listening to statement recordings and turned into doing his best not to squirm awkwardly during staff meetings. That once, _just once_ , Martin had fled to the restroom and bitten down on his tongue after a performance report.

Now, Martin _is_ squirming, and Jon kisses a path back up to his ear, and says, “You’re beautiful, you know. Even in this ridiculous dress, you’re beautiful.”

“I don’t plan to wear it again.” Martin’s voice is breathy, because it can never be anything else when Jon is touching him. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Jon actually laughs at that, and says, “Fucking you in a dress never really crossed my mind.” He nips at Martin’s earlobe. “I have thought about fucking you on my desk.”

Martin’s hips jerk of their own volition. “Have you?”

“Once or twice,” Jon murmurs, and his hand is on Martin’s balls, and the sound Martin makes has him laughing again. “I think you’d like that.”

Martin manages to say, “You’d have to clear off some of that paperwork.”

“To hell with the paperwork.” Jon kisses him again, wetter this time, and sloppier, and Martin thinks he might spontaneously combust if Jon keeps this up, the rotten tease. Jude would probably like that. He bats that thought away, throwing himself into the kiss with everything he has.

There’s no telling where the bottle of oil comes from. Martin is sure one of them would have noticed if it was on the bed when they started, so it can’t have been, but it’s there now, and the sight of it makes Martin ever so slightly more desperate than he already was. He gropes for it, and says, “Please,” and Jon plays with his balls a moment longer before letting go, which is awful, and then takes the oil, which is better.

“On your stomach now,” Jon says. Martin scrambles to comply. He’s unbearably hard, and his skin feels hot all over, and he hears Jon unstopper the oil and it feels like forever before there’s the tip of a finger pressing into him, to the second knuckle, slick and smooth, and his breath catches, and Jon’s mouth is on his ear. “There you go, I’ve got you.”

Jon’s finger slips out of him, and then there’s the barest hint of pressure, Jon’s finger resting at his rim, stroking back and forth like he’s undecided. Martin pushes his hips back, unable to help himself. Jon sucks at his earlobe, and it goes right to his cock, and the sound he makes is pathetic. The finger pushes back into him, pushes deeper, and Martin shoves his face into the mattress, and Jon makes a sound of his own, and Jon withdraws part of the way, pushes back in, and it’s just a finger, but Jon’s fingers are long and more importantly he knows Martin’s body, knows the right angles to turn him into a mess when they’ve barely breached the surface. Ha.

It’s a long time, or it feels like a long time this way, before Jon shifts, climbs properly on top of Martin, and there’s his cock, hard and rubbing against Martin’s ass, and that’s when he adds a second finger. The stretch makes him moan, and Jon says, “You’re doing so well,” and, “You’re something else,” and Martin answers with a roll of his hips that forces Jon’s fingers deeper into him. Jon kisses the corner of his mouth, and Martin turns his head for a more proper kiss, difficult as it is to achieve at this angle, and Martin feels like a mess. Probably thanks to the dress.

“I’m ready,” Martin breathes, when Jon’s fingers scissor in a way that makes him see stars and think he might come.

“Are you?” Jon begins to slide his fingers free, but seems to reconsider, and presses them down, and the sound Martin makes at that can’t decide if it’s sheer outrage or broken arousal. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

Martin swats half-heartedly at Jon as his fingers slide out altogether. “Tease,” he mumbles, and jerks a finger toward the headboard, his hand shaking. “Over there.”

Jon understands him without more instruction; he ought to, the number of times Martin’s ridden him. He crawls on his knees, pausing only to give Martin a kiss that lingers; it takes Martin several moments to catch his breath and follow. It’s another moment to tug Jon’s trousers down, and for Martin to straddle him, and Martin muffles his first shout of pleasure into Jon’s shoulder while he sinks down, inch by inch, onto Jon’s cock.

 _Alice,_ a voice chides in his head, and he thinks it’s an unhappy Agnes, _the Queen would like to hear you._

 _I don_ _’t care what the Queen would like,_ Martin thinks in return, no way of knowing if she can hear him. Hopefully, hopefully not, it doesn’t matter to him at this point. He rolls his hips and yes, he _does_ like his Archivist’s cock, every thick bit of it that’s filling him. The thing is, Jon doesn’t crave sex, would just as happily go without; Martin’s never pressured him into a thing, but Jon does like the way Martin _responds_ during sex, and Martin’s been more than satisfied with the state of their sex life, and the way Jon feels inside of him is—

Jon’s hands settle on his hips. “You’re not waiting for an invitation again, are you?”

“That happened _one_ time,” Martin says, and lifts himself until it’s just the tip of Jon’s cock left in him, and sinks down again, slowly, watching Jon’s face, the way his eyes half-close and the way his mouth moves. Martin likes to take his time, likes the rise and fall of Jon’s chest beneath his hands, likes the sensation of being full, over and over. He likes the way Jon’s fingers tighten on his hips every time he moans.

Martin likes the way Jon lets him take the lead and set his own pace; but he also likes the way Jon loses himself when he’s close, the way he suddenly holds Martin still and fucks up into him, the way he breathes Martin’s name, _Martin_ _’s_ , even with a monstrous queen listening to them, and he likes the way Jon touches his cock, strokes him perfectly in time with these final thrusts, and he likes the way his own come coats Jon’s shirt just before Jon’s coming in him.

He likes the way they sit still, breaths hard and mingling, for a minute afterward. It’s comfortable with Jon still inside of him.

Martin speaks first. “D’you think Nikola is happy?”

Jon’s hands slide lower, squeeze at Martin’s ass. “I really don’t give a damn.”

Martin kisses him, and then he feels a bit empty, and also feels Jon’s come sliding down his leg. “There’s not a tissue in here, is there?”

There’s not, of course. They make do with the sheets, wiping clean as well as they can. Martin does his best to look anything other than recently fucked, for all the good it does. They’ve all seen what just happened. But it’s a decency thing. A matter of principle.

Or something like that.

Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but go and face the Queen of Hearts again.

Jon exits the room first, as though he expects an attack on the other side and would rather it take him. Martin wouldn’t put it past the roses, having seen what they can do. He also wouldn’t put it past Jude. But they come out right where they left, beside Martin’s abandoned chair.

The garden party is still fully underway. Martin spots another couple dancing some distance away, half-hidden by a hedge. He screws his eyes to the group at the table, to Nikola and Michael and Agnes and, unfortunately, to the puppet corpses.

Nikola’s eyes are bright. “Alice!” she says, and takes his hand with her rubbery-wrong fingers. “Oh, darling, you’re such a talented dancer, you’re my favorite!”

“Agnes is a better dancer,” Jude says.

“You’ve never danced with Agnes,” Peter says cheerfully. “You’ve only dreamt of it.”

Michael laughs, but it is looking at Martin in a way that he reads as _hurt_. It’s Alice it wants though, not really him, and either way, he’s not going to feel badly for not wanting to have sex—or any other sort of touching—with something that isn’t, that would cut him with a touch.

Nikola ignores them all completely, her eyes locked on Martin, who’s got his other hand on Jon’s bloodied shirt, whose face is beet red, because he’s being complimented on the way he has sex with Jon, and he really, really would like to go now. Nikola says, “You should stay!”

“No,” Martin says, succeeding at firm but polite, which he thinks the situation calls for. “No, we’d really like to be going, right, Archivist?”

“We would,” Jon says.

Nikola pretends not to have heard him. “Alice,” she says, crestfallen, “I hoped you would change your mind this time.”

“Maybe next time.”

Nikola’s eyes water. She gives Martin another horrid hug; he’s sure it’ll haunt him for the rest of his life. “Oh, all _right_.” She doesn’t let go, just says, “I dismiss you from my court,” and Martin has the sense that he is falling, and he hears Michael’s voice calling something, though he cannot make it out, and there’s Peter’s voice too, and the hoarseness of the corpses, and—

* * *

Martin wakes, his heart pounding wildly. He’s in bed. The room is dark, and his glasses are on his face. He reaches out for Jon and is relieved to find him there. It would be nice to think, in the dark, that it was a dream. They’re not so lucky as all that.

He doesn’t need light to know he’s still in the dress, and he is sticky with sweat and semen, and the wildflower scent is fading, but not altogether faded from the air.

“Martin,” Jon says, managing to flick the lamp on. His hand is still bandaged, and his clothes are still wrong, as well as bloodied and ruined. Their sheets are going to be a lost cause as well. Wonderland has left its mark on their bedroom: a broken lamp with several dead roses scattered about, a dead vine looking a bit tragic beside his pillow, a green hue on the headboard where at least the moss has gone.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, the first thing that springs to mind. “I should have checked for the bookplate.”

“Please do.” Jon yanks irritably at his Wonderland clothing.

“But we’re alive,” Martin says.

Jon gives him a wry smile and touches his hand. “We’re home.”

Martin gets out of bed, intent on setting fire to the roses.

**Author's Note:**

> me: okay, brain, gimme something helpful  
> brain: put Martin in the dress  
> me: I said helpful  
> brain: oh yeah.  
> brain:  
> me:  
> brain:  
> brain: have you considered putting Martin in the dress?


End file.
